Icarus
by GryphonoftheNorth
Summary: In the end, the world is made of up Haves and Have-nots. Some people have wings, some people do not, but Sherlock Holmes never expect to be a part of the latter. AU wing!fic.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Wing!fic is fun: fact. There isn't enough of it: fact. So I decided to write some, woo~ This will be chaptered and I'm going to do my best to keep writing ahead so I can update in a consistent manner. For the record, this an AU, but will not be a re-hash of A Study in Pink. However, it will contain certain elements and a few lines from it, especially in the beginning. As always, a big thanks to my bestest buddy Courtney (shhjustcomeandjamwithme on tumblr, go follow her) for beta-ing for me because I fail at typing.**

**Alright, I'll shut up now. Please review, feedback is always appreciated!**

In the end, the world is made of up Haves and Have-nots - and Sherlock Holmes is very used to Having. He's used to having a Mummy who doted on him, having an older brother who shoves his nose where it oughtn't be in a meaningless attempt to assume the mantle of an absent father. Most of all he's used to having one of the most brilliant minds in London and by God does he know it. He's not afraid to let everyone else know it either, which might have gotten him in a bit more trouble if it weren't for his sharp, pale eyes and dark curls - and, most importantly, his wings like an avenging angel, all dark, glossy feathers that gleam green-black in the sunlight and hang effortlessly around his narrow frame.

Everything in life had been given to him, so it was only natural that he had to go and bugger it all up.

Mental health professionals might venture to call it acting out - a lonely young man spurned by his peers turning to drugs in search of what he didn't even know was lost. Sherlock wouldn't hesitate to call them idiots, of course, but there was nothing surprising in that. Those years had been…an experiment, or so he told himself. The cocaine and the heroin and the other drugs he only went so far as to sample were merely variables in his experiments as he played with his mind like it was a toy.

But that was a lie - or at least a half-truth. He did the drugs because he _needed_ them, and not just in the sense of the physical addiction. Some nights he needed the way they crafted his mind into something inhumanly sharp and deadly, turning his thoughts into bullet trains half-derailed from the start that ricocheted off the insides of his skull until they crashed into one another with a great and terrible sort of beauty. And other nights he needed silence. The kind of deep, permeating silence of the mind that he suspected came so easily to the great, driveling masses, but eluded him with impossible efficiency. Either way he was a god among mortals, twisting and turning the world with his fingertips until it was molded to his liking.

Except he wasn't a god, not really. He wasn't invincible or immortal or anything of the sort - a reality that came crashing down when he flew too high, too close to the sun, and fate herself plucked out the feathers he didn't deserve and threw him back to earth in disgust.

When he wakes up the first thing he sees is Mycroft set against a backdrop of too-white hospital walls and a window with its blinds drawn against the London dusk. He looks impossibly tired, his face even more pinched and drawn than usual. Sherlock wants to make a crack about how the diet must not be treating him well, but his mouth refuses to cooperate and he fails to get any sound out before he sinks from muddled consciousness back into the grasp of oblivion.

When he wakes up again he's aware that he is lying on his front and his eyes feel like they're glued shut but he isn't inclined to care at the moment, because the dull but fierce ache centered around his shoulder blades is taking up the majority of his attention. His wings feel raw and sore where they connect to his back and he's sure he must have wrenched them somehow. Think,_ think_. What was the last thing he could remember? Flying, he'd been flying. Higher, faster, farther than ever before, his heart pounding in his ears and his mind on fire, his eyes watering in the wind. One moment he'd been so _alive_ and the next the sky was letting go of him and the earth reclaiming her lost son with enough force to send him spiraling into a haze of senseless pain and darkness.

Like Icarus he fell, and so he paid the consequences.

Sherlock Holmes has a lot of things. Like cruel, puckered knots of scar tissue on his back and a small wooden box filled with dark, glossy feathers. He still has a brother too nosy for anyone's good, but he doesn't have the drugs anymore. What he has instead are crime scenes and deductions, triple murders and serial killers with maybe just a touch of fraud on the side for variety.

But what he doesn't have, are wings.


	2. Chapter 2

It's been raining again.

John Watson has learned to hate the rain almost as much as he hates the cramped little bedsit he's headed back toward even now, and almost as much as he hates the aluminum cane his therapist says he shouldn't need at all. The rain just means more time to stare at those same gray walls just like the day before and more time trying to ignore the cold, black weight of his gun hiding in the desk drawer.

His wings fidget restlessly from where they rest with military neatness on his back, though if it's from the moisture still in the air or his current train of thought, he can't tell. People have always said his wings are beautiful, though to be honest, he's never really believed them. They're sturdy and practical, mottled brown like the foothills of Afghanistan except for where they pale to something that glints almost like gold when the sunlight hits it just right. During the war the coloration had been a godsend, blending easily with the desert sand whereas those with more ostentatious coloring were forced to tedious measures like dye or, in more dire situations, a good dust bath.

In Afghanistan they'd been great and bright and maybe even a little beautiful, but in London they are just as gray and lifeless as the wet roads and people doing their shopping and those cold, staring walls that grew closer with every limping, reluctant step.

John pauses just outside his building as a quiet jingle coming from his pocket announces an incoming text, trying in vain to pretend he isn't relieved to have an excuse to put off the inevitable as he fishes it out. And it's…Harry. Of course. She's the one who insisted he take the bloody thing in the first place after all, despite the fact that that he doesn't know how to work half the things it can supposedly do and doesn't really want to. And now she's drunk texting him at four o'clock in the afternoon. Jesus Christ.

John heaves a deep sigh and kneads his forehead with one hand, trying to figure out where his life all went wrong. Not that long ago he was fighting a war and saving lives, instead of debating whether or not the prospect of babysitting his alcoholic sister was worth the excuse not to go back home just yet.

Finally he opens his eyes again and…oh.

Just for a moment the world snaps back into focus and floods with color. Before he even realizes it, he's moving, sticking his cane out to where it collides almost comically with the shins of a ratty young man fleeing down the sidewalk, sending him tumbling unceremoniously to the ground. A man is trailing still a ways off, but he's flashing a badge and trying to calm the startled public so they can get the hell out of his way, so John's confident in his nearly subconscious assessment - the man on the ground was some kind of criminal and he'd been right to stop him. Good. That is…very good.

At least it would've been, if not for the tall figure that decides to bust out of the nearby alleyway, trench-coat flapping behind him like some demented bat creature. He skids to a stop, sparing the fallen criminal a single glance - whatever the young man's done can't be _that_ bad, John decides, as he doubts a harden criminal would just lie there moaning like a baby - before fixing John with a look that can only be described as _incredulous_.

"What did you do that for?" The man snaps, his dark curls more than just artistically disheveled and a slight flush staining his neck.

John blinks, honestly taken aback. "What?"

"Oh, don't play dumb. Though I realize it must be something you're extraordinarily good at." He says scathingly and suddenly he's leaning too close, wantonly invading John's space without ever breaking eye contact. "I _had_ him."

More than anything John wants to take a step back to put some space between them and his wings itch with the desire to half-unfurl in an instinctual display of a threatened animal, but the world is still sharp and full of color and just as much as he doesn't want to lose this new development, he also doesn't want to defer to this wild-eyed madman in an expensive coat. So he simply squares his shoulders and looks him in the eye, lips thin with quiet restraint. "Didn't look that way to me."

The man's eyes widen a fraction, but before he can react the other pursuer arrives, shouldering past to stand over the young criminal, who he yanks to his feet by the collar. "Leave 'im alone, Sherlock." He chastises in a gravelly voice, sparing John a quick glance and a grateful nod. "He did us a favor." Before he can say anything else the criminal starts squirming in his grasp and it's all he can do to get the handcuffs on him without taking a wingtip to the eye.

Sherlock. The name suits the dark-haired man somehow - unusual and imbued with an almost palpable sense of self-importance. John didn't even hazard a guess as to what his mother had been thinking when she chose it.

Sherlock isn't paying attention to his companion and their quarry though - he's watching John, dissecting him with his unnervingly pale gaze. "You didn't have to do that." His tone oddly thoughtful in comparison to his earlier quips, almost as if he were simply thinking out loud. "But you did. Why?"

John shifts his weight, loosening his grip on the cane that was evidently fairly useful after all. "Seemed like the right thing to do." Which sounds a lot better than 'I'm not entirely sure myself'.

The silence stretches on for too long and John wonders why Sherlock hasn't noticed - or doesn't care - that his silver-haired companion had left, if only to attempt to ignore the other man's stare burning into him. He's just considering taking his leave whether the other man is done interrogating him or not when an entirely different sort of question startles him.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Sorry, what?"

"Afghanistan or Iraq." Sherlock says with overemphasized patience, undeterred by John's confusion. "Your entire bearing screams military. Not to mention your tan. So, Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"I- my tan?"

"Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists. So, not sunbathing. Military, so you've been abroad. But not anymore, why is that? You have a cane. Wounded in action and invalided out. Obvious. But you weren't wounded in the leg, were you?"

Now it's John's turn to let the silence stretch, his mouth unabashedly ajar. "How could you…_possibly_ know that?"

A smug smirk crawls across Sherlock's features. "Your cane. You haven't been leaning on it this entire time. At least partly psychosomatic, I suspect. Unless you simply carry it around to trip two-bit criminals in your spare time."

This startles a laugh out of him and he almost misses the faint look of surprise that flickers across Sherlock's face. "What'd he do anyways?"

Sherlock shrugs, as if he hadn't just been chasing the subject down an entire city block. "Nothing of consequence, I'm sure. He would have been off pickpocketing tourists again if he had answered my questions instead of running off like an idiot." He checks his mobile as he talks, eyes studying the screen briefly before fixing John with another thoughtful look. "You're looking for a flatshare."

John's eyebrows knit together. It's not a question. "Says who?"

"Me." He says matter-of-factly, pocketing his phone. "I can't imagine you'll be able to afford London for long on an army pension. Not to mention you live _here_," he spared the building behind John a vaguely disgusted look, "so obviously no family you're close enough to to ask for help."

Alright, so maybe John had considered finding a flat mate, but only about as much as he had considered asking Harry for help before dismissing the idea entirely. After all, between the nightmares and the restlessness, who would want to share a flat with him? "Is that…an offer then?"

"I should think so."

His wings unfold slightly and close again and his tongue flicks out to wet his lips - a nervous habit he's had since before he can remember. "We've only just met and you want to look at a flat together?" He asks, his expression carefully neutral, though he has a feeling Sherlock can see through the façade. "I don't even know your name."

A half-smile quirks at one corner of Sherlock's lips, less like his earlier smirk and more like one you'd give a dog who'd just learned a new trick. He extends his hand. "Sherlock Holmes."

John hesitates, but pockets the phone he'd forgotten he was even holding and reaches out to shake Sherlock's hand. "Dr. John Watson." He says, using his title in what he tells himself is the spirit of full disclosure, but really he wants to prove there's a part of him that Sherlock's impossibly keen eye hasn't picked out.

"Ahh. An army doctor." Sherlock says with the look of renewed interest and John can't help but feel vaguely like he's been put under a microscope. He releases John's hand after a moment and pulls out his phone again, sending a quick text. "If that's settled then, I'd best be going. Have some eyeballs waiting for me in the morgue and a potential lead to follow. Let's meet tomorrow at say, seven?"

"Wait! Ah- what was the address again?"

"221B Baker Street." Sherlock flashes him a tightlipped smile that feels more perfunctory than anything before turning on his heel and tossing a quick, "Afternoon!" over his shoulder before striding off in the opposite direction.

John takes a deep, steadying breath and wonders how the simple act of a Good Samaritan had somehow led to the offer of a flatshare.

It isn't until his retreating figure is almost out of sight that John realizes that Sherlock Holmes doesn't have any wings.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thank you to all who reviewed, and even those who just put it on story alert. It's encouraging to know that people are reading :D I'll probably try to keep to updating every two days from here, but I figured today's Reichenbach and most of us will probably die today anyways, so what the hell. **

Though time passes with its usual agonizing slowness, John remains in an oddly buoyant mood after the chance meeting. Somehow the dull gray walls of his cramped little bedsit don't seem quite as confining and the gun in the desk drawer quiets from a intense, pulsing presence just behind the wood into a soft murmur in the back of his mind. He even updates his blog in an effort to appease his therapist, hoping that will get her off his back.

The next day he goes for a walk to pass the time and runs into Mike Stamford, an old friend from Bart's. He _has_ gotten fat since he's last seen him and John doubts his already small, rusty orange wings can lift him off the ground anymore, but he still likes Mike well enough. He catches up with him over coffee and in conjunction with yesterday's events he's beginning to think maybe things do happen to him on occasion after all.

As seven o'clock and Baker Street creep closer John lets a bit of mild trepidation color his curiosity. He _is _meeting a man he'd just met yesterday under the most unusual of circumstances, after all, a little wariness wasn't amiss. Though if he's being honest with himself, as he so rarely is, it's that electric sense of the unknown that is so alluring.

"Hello." The easily recognizable voice sounds behind him, accompanied by the closing of a cab door, even as John raps the knocker against the door under the gleaming metal 221B.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes. Hello." John says, resting his weight against his cane as he briefly clasps the proffered hand in greeting. He tilts his head to squint up at the building admiringly, his eyes scanning its front. "This is…nice. Very nice."

"Sherlock." The man in question corrects him, looking amused. "You sound surprised."

"Just must be expensive is all."

"Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, gave me a special deal. Owes me a favor. A few years back her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help her out."

"You stopped her husband from being executed?"

"Oh no," Sherlock says with a tight, matter-of-fact little smile. "I ensured it."

Before John has any time to process that bit of information, the door opens to reveal an older woman who, oddly enough, looks positively delighted to see them. She's care-worn and soft-spoken, her wings a soft cream color that for some reason don't sit quite right on her back. A doctor's concern nags at the back of his mind, but neither Mrs. Hudson nor Sherlock mention it as she ushers them inside after a quick introduction and politeness keeps him from asking.

"Now, Sherlock, I won't be making it to group today, but you tell Samantha-" She pauses on the threshold as the phone rings down the hall, tutting softly to herself. "Oh dear, that's probably her now. I'd better get that - such a fragile thing, she is." She pats John on the arm with motherly familiarity. "Sherlock will show you up, dear. There's another bedroom on the second floor, of course, if you'll be needing two. I won't be a moment!"

John's eyebrows furrow. "Of course we'll be needing two-" But Mrs. Hudson is bustling away and Sherlock is already halfway up the stairs, so he lets it go and sets his sights on awkwardly managing the narrow staircase with his cane instead.

By the time he reaches the landing Sherlock is looking impatient, but the near-manic gleam is back in his eye and he throws open the door in a flair of dramatics as soon as John comes into sight.

What lies inside is, like everything else about Sherlock Holmes, unexpected.

The interior décor, underneath the bohemian clutter and downright _mess_, is like something out of an outdated crime novel. Stacks of books teeter haphazardly on surfaces that aren't covered in sheaves of paper and even some that are, bearing titles that range from medical texts to true crime. The reoccurring theme, however, appears to be skulls, from the bull skull on the wall artfully displaying a pair of headphones to what he has no doubt is an authentic human skull settled on the mantle.

"Already moved in then?" He asks wryly, before he can stop himself.

Sherlock clears his throat awkwardly. "Yes. Well, maybe it could use a bit of tidying up." And apparently his version of 'tidying up' includes shuffling some paper into something resembling a lopsided pile and firmly stabbing a stray knife into the mantle. Alright then.

Now it's John's turn to be awkward. He licks his lips and reaffirms his grip on his cane, words that he doesn't particularly want to say sticking obstinately in his throat. "Mrs. Hudson. She said something about _group_. Does that mean…?"

The unfinished question hangs heavily in the space between them and Sherlock flashes him a look of contempt that clearly says _don't ask questions you already know the answer to_, though surprisingly enough he has the courtesy not to say it out loud.

Just about the response he'd been expecting then. "Right. So…you weren't born without wings." Technically group therapy could mean anything, from alcoholism to drug abuse, but he knew Sherlock wouldn't appreciate him playing dumb over making the assumption.

To be flightless - grounded - in a feathered world is a curse, but it happens. Some are born with bare backs, but more than that lose them or injure them beyond repair, often resulting in deep bouts of depression that lead to prescriptions for medication and group therapy. That explains what had seemed so off about Mrs. Hudson's wings at least. Healed now, but broken beyond the capability of flight - probably something to do with that husband executed in Florida. Sherlock, however, he can't imagine sitting in a circle and sharing his feelings.

Sherlock's back is turned toward him as he rearranges something on the table and John wonders for a moment where he finds clothes without slits in the back. There are probably shops that cater to that sort of thing, but he hasn't seen them, and judging by Sherlock's sharp suits and designer shirts, they're probably tailor made anyways. It's no wonder he needs a flatshare, special deal or not. John can't see his face when he responds, but his tone is even and seemingly unflappable. "If you're wondering, my insufferable brother makes me go." Sherlock says, as if reading his mind. "But no, I wasn't."

John sucks in a deep breath. "Alright. Okay then. That's fine."

Sherlock turns his head to give him a sharp, calculating look out of the corner of his eye. "I know it's fine."

Shit. This isn't going as planned. "I'm just saying…it's all fine."

John tries not to squirm under his stare but finds it incredibly difficult, as his wings choose the most inopportune moment to itch and fidget, as if sensing that they're the last things he wants to draw attention to right now. He's known people who were wingless or otherwise could fly before - he's an army doctor, of course he has - but it's nevertheless not a topic he likes to dwell on.

A chime from Sherlock's mobile saves him, and whatever he reads there makes his eyes light up like Christmas has come early. "_Oh._" He breathes, grin twitching unconsciously at one corner of his mouth. "Another victim." He murmurs to himself with indecent relish. "On our way to becoming a serial killer, are we? _Lovely._" And with that he's practically bounding out the door and leaving a very confused John in his wake.

John, for his part, resists the urge to stare stupidly after him and instead glances awkwardly about the flat, wondering what the hell he's supposed to do now. Read the paper and see if he could bother Mrs. Hudson for a cup of tea? Oh yes, that was much more exciting than watching crap telly back at his bedsit and pretending to type diligently in his blog simply for some sense of accomplishment. The exciting life of Dr. John Watson at its best.

"Well? Are you coming?"

John's head snaps up at the impatient voice, surprised to see an equally impatient Sherlock standing in the doorway. "Wha- where?"

"Crime scene. Didn't you hear?"

Was this a joke? John watched him suspiciously, hesitant. "Why would I go with you to a crime scene?"

"Because you're an army doctor." He answers, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. A few steps later and once again he's too close, invading John's space in what he's beginning to think is simply a habit of his, leaning his head in until he's practically whispering in John's ear. "And you're _bored_."

He's gone again with a swirl of his long coat.

To his credit, John lasts approximately three heartbeats before he mutters "_damn it_." and hurries after him, cane thumping against the ground in time with his footsteps.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: If amputation is triggery for you or anything, tread carefully with this one. It's not explicit, but I thought I'd give fair warning just in case.**

"So you don't work with the police."

"Not exactly, no."

The black cab pulls away and John eyes what is very clearly police tape roping off the building in front of them. "Then why are we at a crime scene, exactly?"

Sherlock simply flashes him a wry smirk. "To solve a murder, of course."

"Oi, Freak!" A woman's voice turns their heads and they watch as she strides toward them with irritated purpose, her wings mantled and her curly hair bouncing with every sharp step. "No. Out. You are _not_ supposed to be here."

Sherlock attempts to shoulder past her but she sidesteps in front of him smartly, her hand raised between them in the universal signal to stop, so close she's very nearly touching his chest. He narrows his eyes and gives a long-suffering sigh through his nose. "Must we do this every time, Sally? I was _invited._"

"Yeah, except that I happen to know for a fact that you _weren't,_" she retorts without missing a beat and John can't help but be a little impressed. He's starting to get the feeling that Sherlock Holmes wasn't a very easy man to say no to, and yet she handled it without faltering. "The Yard _does_ communicate, you know. Lestrade doesn't want you on this one, and I agree."

Sherlock makes a scoffing sound in the back of his throat, but his gaze nonetheless sharpens, like a hound that's finally caught a scent. "Of course you don't, but Lestrade? Why?" The question's met by stony silence so he continues. "He called me in for the last one and I have it on good authority that they're linked, so what's so different? The killer's done something _new_, hasn't he? Sometimes _interesting_?" The relish in his voice is as impossible to miss as the disgust on Sally's face.

"Donovan!" The silver-haired man from yesterday is standing just behind the police tape, looking wearily resigned. If he didn't have to raise his voice to be heard, John was sure his words would've been a tired sigh. "Go on, let him in. You know he won't leave until he's seen it."

Sherlock's positively oozing with smugness as Donovan leads them back, reluctantly lifting the tape for Sherlock, only to give John a confused look, as if she hadn't noticed him before. "Who's this then?"

"Colleague," the dark-haired man answers simply. "He's with me."

"Colleague?" She repeats incredulously. She gives John an almost pitying look. "What? Did he follow you home?"

Alright, now this is getting old. John shifts his weight and holds back a sigh. "Listen, if it's a problem, I can always-"

"No," Sherlock interrupts, lifting the tape and holding it there obstinately until John ducks under it. "Come along, John."

When they meet up with Lestrade at the entrance to the building he flashes John a confused glance, but doesn't question the presence of the stranger from the day before, probably because Sherlock is already demanding information without even breaking stride.

"Name's Elaine Ritters, found dead by her Bridge club not too long ago. Very little blood, so looks like she was killed elsewhere and-" Lestrade pauses, as if something's just struck him, and he moves to cut Sherlock's progression off. "How _did_ you know about this one anyways?"

"I have my sources," Sherlock replies with a slick smile. "Now are you going to let me in or not?"

The D.I. hesitates, his gaze flickering briefly to John only once. "You have two minutes." Then he steps back and lets them in, calling for the forensics team to clear off for a bit.

Upon initial inspection, the large, high-ceiling room could have been one of a million more, its linoleum floors and florescent lighting nothing if not uninspired. Utterly, perfectly normal.

Except, that is, for the body.

She's lying face down in the exact center of the room, pale and prone, her limbs carefully spread eagle. A slight corona of blood stains the floor around her neck, but not nearly enough to have been from the initial, killing slice. Lestrade was right then. Killed elsewhere before putting put on display with perverse pleasure.

But that isn't the surprising part. John's seen corpses before - far too many, he'd say, though he's beginning to accept that that is a lie. What is surprising is the woman's shirt. What once must have been white is now stained a deep, deadly red with dried blood that freezes the wrinkles and folds in place around two butchered stubs of gristle protruding from between her shoulder blades.

Don't look at Sherlock. Don't look at Sherlock. _Don't look at Sherlock_.

"Well, Doctor?" The other man's voice startles him, most especially the calm in it. Another wingless man facing the murder scene of a brutally de-winged woman would have been shaken at the very least, if he didn't just take his leave right then and there. Sherlock, however, is anything but normal, and if he feels anything at the sight, he doesn't show it. "What do you think?"

John gives him a long look that clearly says _what are you playing at?_ but Sherlock only responds with an arch of his eyebrows and, despite the myriad of professionals on the job milling about, he finds himself limping over to kneel awkwardly next to the body. "Cause of death, exsanguination due to a single incision to the carotid artery. Wings amputated crudely, but postmortem." He doesn't add _thank God_. He looks up to find Sherlock kneeling opposite him, eyes trained on the body. "But you already knew that."

"True," he admits, unfolding himself to his full height. "But it's always nice to get a professional opinion."

"One we could have gotten without _you _here," a new man gibes from where he leans against the doorway, looking entirely displeased that they were walking all over his crime scene.

Sherlock makes a disgusted sound. "Anderson. A pleasure as always," he quips snidely. He gives him a surveying look. "Wife away, is she?"

Anderson's jaw clenches but he otherwise doesn't react to the blatant attempt at provocation. "It was obviously a crime of passion - just look at her wings," he huffs. "The killer must have just-"

"Thank you for your useless and utterly wrong opinion as always, Anderson, please _do_ shut up now," Sherlock interrupts neatly, casting Anderson a look of pure condescension. "Elaine Ritters was a widow with two cats and a rose garden who played bridge 'with the girls' on Thursday nights. The closest thing to 'passion' she had was daytime televisio-" He stops abruptly, a furrow appearing between his eyes. "Where's her ring?"

Lestrade, who had been hanging back, watching how Sherlock and John tread around the body like a hawk, is the first to react. "What ring?"

"Her ring! Her wedding ring! Where is it?" Sherlock snaps with palpable impatience, his movements frenzied as he crouches closer to the body.

"You just said she was a wido-"

"_Yes_, and she still wears it out of sentiment. Look at the tan line on her finger. Obvious. She wouldn't just up and stop wearing it after all these years, especially not to go out with her friends. So the killer took it. But _why_?" He straightens almost too quickly, turning his focus to Lestrade. "The first victim, Hoit, was he married?"

The D.I. frowns. "Engaged. His fiancé was the one who found the body, but there was no ring." His frown deepens. "He was in construction - she said he must have taken it off for work."

John clears his throat and finally speaks up. "Trophies then?"

Sherlock gives him a startled look, as if he'd forgotten he was there, but shakes his head, his response considerably gentler than the one Anderson had received. "No. He doesn't kill for pleasure - not entirely. What's important is the _game_. Look at the victims - a twenty-three year old construction worker and a middle-aged widow. Connection? Apparently none, aside from the lack of rings, but there _has_ to be something. Something small, seemingly inconsequential. He wants to see if we're clever enough to find it," he muses, suddenly pacing around the body as if a new angle would shed more light on the situation.

John's head lifts as a thought strikes him, synapses sparking with a moment of clarity as the dots suddenly connect. Sherlock doesn't work for the police, he is _allowed_ onto crime scenes, and for some reason Lestrade hadn't initially wanted him on this one. Maybe because he was abrasive, maybe because he insulted his employees, or _maybe_ because something about this one was different. "Ah, the first victim, the construction worker. Was he…missing his wings too?"

"No," Sherlock answers. There's a beat before he looks at John, comprehension of something that must go beyond the fact that one victim's wings had been removed and another's hadn't dawning all over his face. "Oh," he breathes. "_Oh._" He neglects to explain further and instead he's nearly running out the door, slipping past Anderson without even an insult to spare.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade calls after him, looking frustrated. "What is it? What do you know?"

"_Wings!_" Is the faint response he gets back.

And next to a murdered woman with nothing but a cane he despises and only a vague sense of where he is, John Watson is left alone.


	5. Chapter 5

John didn't think it was possible to be ignored by every cab in London until today. Or at least it feels that way, trudging along with a bum leg from a crime scene, of all places because his flatmate (_potential_ flatmate and _definite_ madman) can't be bothered to wait up for him. John sighs and his wings are hunched in an unabashed show of brooding, but his leg is aching with frustration and annoyance, so he doesn't much care.

"Dr. Watson."

John does a double-take, slowing to a stop in front of a quiet little café. A woman is holding the door open, apparently absorbed in typing away diligently at her blackberry. A moment passes in silence and she looks up at him expectantly, motioning towards the interior of the café with her head.

John hesitates, his brain spitting out automatic feedback on the situation. The café in question is small but distinctly posh - definitely more than he could afford even with something more than just his army pension - and sufficiently populated to ease his nerves a little. The woman is attractive - certainly enough to spark John's attention if the fact that she knew his name at all didn't put him on edge - with slim white wings that are in stark contrast with her dark, elegant outfit and phone that is evidently so incredibly _fascinating _she can barely take her eyes off it. All in all - not a threat. Probably.

John's cane clicks loudly against the tile as he enters the establishment despite every bit of sense he has screaming at him not to. He wouldn't have known what to look for among the rich neutral colors of the décor and air heady with the smell of coffee and baked goods had it not been for another soft utterance of his name from his left, effortlessly catching his attention.

"Dr. Watson," the man says with a smile that would be just as at home on the cat that ate the canary. He certainly doesn't look intimidating in his three piece suit and gray-blue tie, but his wings speak of something more lurking behind the façade of a foppish politician with expensive tastes. They're large, though that may just be because they seem to have a presence of their own, and pale gray with the promise of great white streaks hidden within the folds. Nobodies don't have wings like that. His fingers pluck idly at a teacup settled on a delicately patterned saucer on the table before him, but his appraising gaze doesn't leave John. "Please. Take a seat."

He hesitates, glancing around the café before cautiously taking the opposite seat. He frowns when a cup of his own is placed in front of him, but it remains untouched. "So," John says finally, raising his eyebrows. "What's this all about then?"

An oily smile flickers across the man's features and he leans back to lounge slightly in his chair and tilts his head ever so slightly. "Very to the point, aren't you, John?"

The use of his name is engineered to disarm him, but he doesn't let it. This stranger has already made it abundantly clear that he knows more about him than he ought to. "Well, my leg hurts and I'd rather like to get home, so yeah, I guess you could say that."

"_Home_." The man draws the word out, savoring the single syllable like a delicacy. "That wouldn't be," he pulls a small notebook out of his suit coat and makes a show of examining it, "221B Baker Street, now would it?"

Icy fingers of dread squeeze John's heart, but he doesn't let it show. "I could be wrong, but…I _think_ that's none of your business."

A low chuckle rattles in the back of his throat. "Oh, but I think it is," the man says, still as calm and smooth as can be. "You see, my brother-"

"Your brother?" John interrupts despite himself, brow furrowing momentarily. So it's the elder Holmes that sat across from him? That…explains a lot about the whole conversation, actually. And yet somehow doesn't put him at ease.

"Yes, of course," Holmes says, looking at John as if he'd somehow missed the fact that fish can swim. He sighs and leans forward over the table slightly. "As I'm sure you've noticed, my brother is a man of eccentric - and on occasion, extremely _childish -_ tastes. Just as you, John, are not a rich man. Should you indeed move into 221B, I am willing to provide you with sufficient funds in return for information."

"You're asking me to-" A chirp from his mobile interrupts him and he pauses to glance at the incoming text.

**Baker Street. **

**Come at once if convenient.**

**SH**

"-to spy on him for you?"

"However you wish to term your employment is your own prerogative, I assure you." The elder Holmes frowns as John's mobile goes off again. "Interrupting something, am I?"

**If inconvenient.**

**Come anyway.**

**SH**

"Not…at all," John responds, sounding entirely distracted as he drags his gaze away from the phone. "Anyway, the answer's no."

His lips thin and a subtle twitching in those great, gray wings betray his irritation despite the upward curl of his mouth. He's not a man that often gets told 'no' in any way, shape, or form. "You're very loyal, Dr. Watson. Very loyal, _very_ quickly." His gaze pins John down, sharp and serious. "Sherlock Holmes is a dangerous man - more to himself than any other. I worry about him _constantly._"

At that moment John suddenly wants nothing more than to ask the elder Holmes what happened to his brother's wings and the curiosity might have overpowered him had it not been for the line, invisible and yet clear as day, that lay between him and the subject, very clearly not intended to be crossed. Not here, not now. He settles for wetting his lips instead, the old habit comforting and familiar. "I'm a doctor. I help people," he says, as if that were as good as any promise.

Another beep.

**Could be dangerous.**

**SH**

"Hmm," Holmes hums thoughtfully. He clasps his hands together with a sense of finality and straightens in his chair, eyebrows lifted. "Well. If there's someplace you'd rather be, by all means, go ahead. The car waiting outside will take you." Another thin smile unfurls across his features. "It's been a pleasure, Dr. Watson."

"Ah, yes," John says as he stands, clearing his throat awkwardly. "Thanks for the, um, tea," he adds lamely, though the cup still sits picture perfect on its saucer, untouched and probably stone cold by now. He makes his exit and finds, as promised, a sleek black car waiting for him, the woman from before texting beside the open back door.

He slides in the smooth, expensive-feeling leather interior and requests the driver take him to Baker Street, but there's someplace he needs to stop by first.

**A/N: Just a bit shorter than the others, on average, but Mycroft Holmes doesn't share chapters with anyone. Or I dunno, something like that xD In any case, I'll mostly likely put up the next chapter tomorrow rather than Saturday to make up for it. As always, please review! Even if it's just a little thing, they make me happy.  
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	6. Chapter 6

When the car pulls up alongside the curb on Baker Street Sherlock is already there waiting, ready to pounce before John even gets a chance to open the car door. He yanks it open and practically drags John from the car, failing to relinquish his grip on his wrist even as John finds his feet and they're striding purposefully down the street.

"Yes, I've got it, thank you," John says snippily, reclaiming possession of his wrist. He's more than a little hacked off at having just traveled across half of London, adrenaline singing in his veins, only to arrive and find a distinct lack of danger and even less of a ready explanation. "So? What is it? Where are we going?"

"For a walk," Sherlock says crisply, twisting around briefly to glare suspiciously at the black car left in their wake.

"You called me here…to take a walk." Don't punch him, don't punch him, it'll look _really_ bad if you punch him…

"Well, obviously the walk has a _destination_." Sherlock rolls his eyes and lengthens his stride (John finds himself cursing those damn long legs of his and rushing to keep up). "To which we are already late. Of course. You can always count on Mycroft to be long-winded."

"Mycroft-" Oh, the older brother. Of course. Someone named _Sherlock_ wasn't brothers with a Bob or Jerry. "Wait- how did you know about that?"

He makes a derisive sound in the back of his throat. "Please. Mycroft can't keep his nose in his own business for longer than five minutes at a time. It's a wonder he didn't get to you sooner. I take it he offered you money to spy on me?"

John licks his lips and stares stalwartly ahead, his conversation with the elder Holmes replaying in the back of his mind. "Yeah."

He can feel Sherlock's stare burning holes in him. "And?"

"And I said no." He risks a glance sideways and is surprised when Sherlock is the first to look away.

"Shame. We could've split the money," he says, adjusting his coat collar with just a bit too much indifference. "Think it through next time."

"Right," John says and a bit of a smile tugs obstinately at the corners of his mouth, though he isn't entirely sure why. "So, this walk. What's its destination then?"

"It's a, ah, get together of sorts. There's someone there I need to question about the case. Not much father now." A sly grin slips across his features and he's watching John from the corner of his eye again. "Not that your leg will be bothering you much, I suspect."

"What d'you me- _Oh._" He nearly stops in his tracks when the realization hits him. His cane, where's his cane? And more importantly, why has it taken him this long to realize it's missing? "My cane. I must have left it back at the…at the café…"

"Yes, Mycroft does have his uses, I suppose," Sherlock says, smirk stuck firmly in place. "Psychosomatic, as I suspected. I had a plan, of course, but this was much easier."

"You had a plan to get rid of my limp?"

"Of course," he responds matter-of-factly. "Can't have you limping around forever. You'd never be able to keep up."

That doesn't sound like an apology for leaving him behind at the crime scene nor a promise not to do it again, but John isn't left with much time to dwell on it before they've arrived at their apparent destination.

"Wait," John says, a sudden realization rooting his feet to the cement. "You're taking me to your _group therapy_? Sherlock, I _can't._ I'm not- you know-"

Sherlock makes an impatient sound and rolls his eyes, grabbing John by the shoulder and forcibly steering him inside the building. "John, don't be tiresome. You're my guest. Just follow my lead and you'll be fine."

When 'follow my lead' started meaning the same thing as 'sit there and look nice while I drape myself over you', John doesn't know, but that's what Sherlock does for nearly the entirety of the meeting. They manage to claim two folding chairs near the back of the group, though they really _are_ late and there's a degree of awkwardness as their entrance interrupts what appears to be a doe-eyed slip of a wingless man having some sort of emotional breakdown to an audience of his peers. Eventually someone takes the man off to be consoled and others speak in turn, though the details of what they're saying are largely lost on John, as Sherlock has his arm thrown languidly over the back of his chair and every so often his knuckles accidentally brush against John's hopelessly restless wings. Not to mention the fact that more often than not he's leaning over to whisper not-so-sweet nothings into his ear that are really (mostly unflattering) deductions about the poor people seated around them. By meeting's end John has learned that Mrs. Lassiter has recently acquired a large dog and the man in the hideous beige coat had a particularly vicious row with his girlfriend before arriving - possibly because of finances, more likely because he's a womanizer - but nothing more.

"What are you doing?" He hisses as one point, but Sherlock merely shushes him and continues on about the speaking woman's undiagnosed Münchausen syndrome under his breath.

When the meeting ends and the room fills with the scraping of chair legs and small talk, Sherlock promptly disappears. Of course. Left with nothing but a sense of displacement and the rumblings of a neglected stomach, John strays toward the sparse refreshment table set up against one wall. The coffee is cheap and lukewarm, but at least he's sure it isn't poisoned or otherwise drugged - something he can't be certain of for the cup of surely otherwise top-notch tea Mycroft had presented him with earlier.

It doesn't take long for a blonde woman to appear at his side, all kind smiles and wings that don't outwardly appear to have anything wrong with them, but most likely harbor some sort of defect if she's here at all.

"Hi, I'm Savannah," she greets cheerfully, her eyes wide and sincere. She doesn't give him a chance to respond before forging ahead. "I just want to say that it's so great seeing Sherlock's found someone so supportive - I'm sure it just means the world to him, you coming here. He can just be so closed off sometimes, you know? It's good to see him happy."

"Oh, ah, yes…" John says in a daze, thrown off by the woman's rapid-fire way of speaking and how surreal the conversation is in the first place. He's playing the wallflower at a therapy group for the flightless and when an attractive - if talkative - woman notices him, she thinks he's gay. Well, this certainly isn't the direction he expected his day to go in when he woke up that morning.

Luckily Sherlock chooses that moment to reappear and swoop to his rescue. He shakes off the woman with a hollow smile and a flimsy excuse before dragging John off to God knows where next.

Unfortunately, John is rather tired of being dragged off to places unknown tonight. "You know, if you wanted me to be your fake boyfriend, you could've just asked," he snaps. Nevertheless, he follows close behind.

"What? Oh. Necessary. You needed a reason to be here. If they thought you came for you, they'd expect you to talk, but if they think you came for _me_, they don't. Simple."

"Simple. Right." He's being sarcastic, but Sherlock doesn't appear to notice or care, so he lets it go. "You said we were here to question someone. Who?"

Sherlock rewards him with a smile. Finally he's asked the right question. "If I'm right, the first victim."

Their destination is an impersonal-looking office set off a hallway leading from the main room. The beige walls and cheap desk aren't interesting in the least, but the young man seated against the far wall certainly is, if only because he looks as if he's about to jump out of his skin at the slightest provocation.

"John, this is Carl Powers. I believe he might have information that can help us find the killer. Carl, this is my colleague, John Watson."

Carl Powers is, simply put, a mess. He's young - no older than nineteen, by John's reckoning - and stress has stripped him of everything he might have once had going for him. His chestnut hair is limp and lackluster and dark circles lurk under his fear-bright and nervously shifting eyes. His hands can't even stay still, his fingers tapping a tuneless beat against the metal of the walker that stands sentry by his side like a loyal, but particularly dim, watchdog. He can't have had lost his wings too long ago if he's still using it to cope with his new sense of balance, John decides. After all, for all their hollow bones and feathers, wings were heavy in their own right, and to suddenly be without them is certainly disconcerting in more ways than one.

Sherlock is practically looming over him with eagerness and John wonders how the poor kid is supposed to be able to concentrate with the man breathing down his neck. "Tell us everything about the night you were attacked, Carl," the consulting detective says intently. "Even if it seems inconsequential. We need to know _everything_."

"I- um- I don't remember much, honestly." Carl shifts uncomfortably in the hard plastic chair, practically squirming under Sherlock's stare. He clears his throat and after a pause launches into his story, as if not trusting himself to hesitate any longer. "I was on my way home from the Deli - where I, uh, where I work, that is. It was a nice night so I decided to walk - fresh air and, ah, all that, you now - and everything was normal. Except- except I took a shortcut, near the pool - I swim- swam- swimmed- um, at a lot, you see, and then I…" He takes a deep gulp of air. "I can't remember anything after that. Before the…the hospital." He pauses and takes a deep breath, a touch of confusion suddenly coloring his features. "Except…eyes. I remember eyes. They were…_cold_. Like a snake's."

Sherlock looks increasingly unimpressed throughout the story and he's shaking his head by the end of it, annoyed. "Like a snake's?" He repeats in a mutter, a frown tugging on the corners of his mouth. "The killer _could _have worn costume contacts before the attack. Unlikely, but possible." His frown deepens. "Unless you were being poetic? Even _more_ unhelpful, if that was possible-"

"Sherlock," John warns softly, but he is, for all intents and purposes, ignored.

"If anything the killer's told us more than you have. You're _different _from the other victims. He didn't kill you. Why? He easily could have. You were helpless - drugged, most likely - and he certainly has the capability. You're an outlier. You're not part of the pattern. You," Sherlock says as he leans in, "were _personal_."

"Sherlock!"

That startles him to his senses and he straightens up, appearing to notice for the first time that Carl is trembling uncontrollably in his seat, his breath coming out in harsh, panicked pants. Sherlock glances at John, and asks in an undertone, "Not good?"

"Bit not good, yeah." There's an awkward pause and John decides it's prudent that perhaps he speak to Carl next. "Carl, is there anyone who might've had a grudge or-"

"No! No one! Now I just- I need to leave now." Carl leaps to his feet too fast and has to grab desperately at his walker as he pitches forward without the familiar weight of his wings to steady him. John makes a move to help him, but is shaken off as Carl forges ahead with surprising purpose, words tumbling out of his mouth in a rush. "I'm- I'm sorry I couldn't help- more."

Sherlock is still frowning long after Carl's wingless back has disappeared out the door. "That was disappointing. I wasn't expecting much, of course - the killer's too good for that - but still."

"Well, I think we might've given him a panic attack."

"He always was a bit jumpy."

There's a beat and, God help him, maybe it's just the sheer absurdity of this gory, topsy-turvy, downright _weird_ day, but John laughs and Sherlock joins him a moment later. He can't remember when exactly he'd decided he was moving into 221B Baker Street, but he doesn't question it either.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Once again, thank you all so much for reading and reviewing! :D I'm surprised so many of you have never read wingfic before. It's one of my favorite types of AU.**

It takes a week for the next victim to appear and in that time John learns two things about his new life at 221B.

One, that Sherlock plays the violin when he thinks, but if John produces a regular offering of tea, he can be persuaded to at least play _well_, rather than the harsh sawing of bow against strings he's prone to when he gets frustrated. And frustration, unfortunately, is a common sentiment when there are two - _three_, Sherlock insists - victims and still no killer in his crosshairs. They go through tea awfully quickly and it feels a bit like a blood sacrifice to a wrathful god of music, but it's one John's willing to make for the sake of his eardrums - and the neighbors'.

He is incidentally out buying more tea when he returns to the flat to discover the second thing. He's been gone for maybe twenty minutes - it would've been less if Sherlock didn't insist on only drinking the most obscure brand he can think of - but it's enough. And so he learns one of the most terrifying things he will ever come home to.

Sherlock Holmes is stationed in one corner of the room and Harry Watson in the other.

They're both seated, but the tension in the room is palpable and he can almost imagine them circling each other like a pair of wary predators. Only where Sherlock is a jaguar, Harry is an alley cat. She hasn't changed much since he last saw her, but compared to the girl he knew growing up, the contrast in startling. She looks older than she ought to, as if the alcohol's washed away years she hasn't lived yet and stained her skin ruddy. Her hair is a washed-out red-brown that hangs lifelessly around her face and her wings are much the same color, only in a worse state. Her feathers are haphazard and dull as if they hadn't been preened properly in ages and even appear to be starting to fall out in patches. Despite this, however, there's a spark in her eyes and a firm set of her jaw that John knows doesn't bode well.

"Ah, John, you're back." If Harry's expression is fiery, then Sherlock's is carved from stone. "Harriet and I were just getting to know each other."

Harry glares at him - presumably for the use of her full name - but tilts her chin up defiantly all the same and leans back into the couch, arms crossed. "Yeah, your penguin boyfriend's been telling me all about your little crime scene adventures. Can't stay away from it, eh Johnny?"

That certainly snaps John out of his stunned silence. "_Harry_," he hisses, dropping the Tesco's bag by the door. "Don't call him that."

"What? A penguin or your boyfriend?"

"It's quite alright, John," Sherlock interrupts. "It's an improvement on- what was the other one? '_Wingless Willy'_?"

"Wingless Wally," Harry corrects with a smirk.

John pinches the bridge of his nose and suppresses the urge to hit something - an urge Harry is especially talented at bringing out in him. "What do you want, Harry?" He sighs.

"What? I can't visit my little brother without wanting something?"

No. Neither of the Watson siblings have 'just stopped by' for a social call in years, even before John left for Afghanistan. Ever since Harry's drinking…well, their relationship was never been the best from start, but the drunken arguments hardly helped. "I gave you the address for _emergencies_, Harry. Not so you can stop by and insult my flatmate."

"He started it!"

Judging by Sherlock's look of exaggerated innocence - and simply the fact that he was _Sherlock_ - that's probably true, but John isn't in the mood to hear about it. "I don't care who started it!" Christ, and now he sounds like their mother. "Just- go home, Harry. I'll call you later if you want to talk so badly."

Harry purses her lips obstinately but nevertheless obliges, pausing only in the doorway to lob a parting shot. "Honestly, Johnny, I never thought you'd be into tall, dark, an-"

"Out!"

John waits until he clearly hears the front door close before allowing himself to collapse in Harry's vacated seat. He scrubs his face with his hands and lets loose a deep sigh. If it ever were to be possible to make oneself disappear, now would be the time…

Finally, Sherlock's voice breaks the silence. "John…"

No luck on the disappearing front then. Figures.

"I am…so, so sorry."

"John, it's alright."

"No, it's not!" He snaps, instantly regretting it. Sherlock's not the one he's mad at, after all. "Sorry. It's just…I'm tired of her bullshit. She had no right to say those things to you."

"I…thank you."

John just nods. When he looks up he finds Sherlock deeply thoughtful, his hands pressed together as if in prayer, his chin perched atop their tips. "So," he says, if only to change the subject. "What have you been working on then?"

"Hmm?" He blinks back into reality, his train of thought obviously broken, but it must not have been important, because he doesn't appear annoyed. "Oh. Just checking Lestrade's suspects against people Carl Powers has come into contact with. No luck, but it was worth ruling them out."

"You still think Carl has something to do with this?"

Sherlock flashes him the _don't ask stupid questions_ look and the corner of John's mouth quirks in an unbidden smile. If Harry's words had gotten to him, they obviously didn't have too much of an effect. "I'm positive. The killer doesn't have a connection to the other two victims. They were killed and posed. Very deliberate. Carl, meanwhile, was found in a back alley, maimed but very much alive. He's different."

"So if the killer hates Carl that much, why didn't he just kill him?"

Sherlock makes a low, thoughtful sound. "Sadism, most likely. He could have tortured and killed him, yes, but then it'd be over. You saw Carl - this is a much worse punishment that death."

_Is it that bad for you, being wingless?_ The question dances on the tip of his tongue but he swallows the words before they dare slip out. No. Now is definitely not the time, if there ever was to be one. "You think it'd be easier, finding whoever hated him that much."

"You'd think," Sherlock muses, but he's already slipping back into the whirring gears of his mind. His hands reach for his violin and John has a feeling they're going to go through a lot of tea before this case is through.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: It's short! I know! So that's why I'm posting the next chapter today too :3 Thank you so much for your kind reviews! I'm glad people are enjoying it. **

When the next body shows up, Lestrade delivers the news in person, along with the detail that something's changed. There's a note this time. Oh joy. As touching as the sentiment may be, John isn't in any mood to appreciate it, seeing as though the D.I. comes knocking on their door at six in the bloody morning.

Sherlock, on the other hand, couldn't be happier. Wings or not, Sherlock practically flies to the crime scene, though really they just take an overpriced cab ride to the park where the body was found by an early-morning jogger. Why they couldn't have just ridden in the police car with Lestrade escapes John, but in any case he slips out of the cab before Sherlock can dash off and leave him to pay the fare. Again.

The world surrounding the scene is appropriately somber, draped in wispy blankets of mist and set under an iron-gray sky. The pale body laying prone on the path might have almost fit in if it wasn't for the streak of crimson staining the ground beneath it.

"Early thirties. Gay, but single. Small dog. Judging by the look of his shoes…real estate agent?" Sherlock rattles off as they approach the corpse, glancing at Lestrade for confirmation he really doesn't need.

Lestrade nods. "Leonard Ollenburg. Real estate agent, reported missing by his sister two days a-"

"_Oh_."

Sherlock descends upon the scene, prowling around the body like a hungry predator, so it's a moment before John can see what has to viciously caught his attention.

The third victim appears much the same as the others, aside from a few key differences. For starters, the man is nude from the waist up, sporting twin gouges between his shoulder blades where wings should be. Where the second victim's had been sloppy stumps, this amputation appears to have been done with near-surgical precision and - John notes with an unpleasant jolt - very clearly done perimortem. That, however, is nothing next to the message scrawled in neat, red lines into the skin below them.

_HELLO, SEXY_.

_Oh_, indeed.

In the meantime, Sherlock crouches next to the victim's head and gently sticks blue latex glove-covered fingers into his slightly ajar mouth. A moment later he straightens, cradling his treasure in the palm of his hand. "I need an evidence bag over here!" He calls vaguely in the direction of a clump of techs.

"What'd you find?" Lestrade asks with a frown. He leans forward as if to take a closer look, but Sherlock beats him to it, presenting his upturned palm before John and the D.I. with a flourish.

"A message," he practically purrs, that light of mad excitement sparking in his eyes again. In his palm lay a burnished gold band, the simple gem inlaid on one side gleaming wetly in the early morning sun. A _woman's_ ring.

"That's…The second victim, Elaine Ritters, that's her ring, isn't it?" John says slowly, knowing he's partway there, but not quite seeing the whole picture. With anyone else this fact might have bothered him, but he's learned to accept that two steps behind Sherlock is often still miles ahead of everyone else. "If that's a message, what's he trying to tell us?"

"No us. Me," Sherlock muses, turning the ring over in his hand and waving off Lestrade's halfhearted protest about fingerprints. If the killer left behind any fingerprints, they would only be left there by design, of that he is sure. "This isn't about the police - I'm not sure it ever was. The victims, the wings, the ring - messages. I told you, it's a game to him. A puzzle. And I'm the one he wants to play with."

"You? Why you?"

"Because he's _bored_! And worse than that, he's clever. Far cleverer than the police - what use would evading them be? Dull. Me though? He thinks I'm _interesting_. That's what this is all about," he says as he gestures toward the bloody letters carved into the man's back. "Lestrade tried to keep me from the last crime scene - due to a misguided effort at sensitivity, no doubt - and he didn't like that, so he made it obvious. That message is for the police. A warning, should they try to keep me off the case - not that they'd succeed, but a warning all the same. And this one," he once more brandishes the ring. "is for me."

"A woman's wedding ring," Lestrade interjects, as if to remind him that he's still there. "So what's he doing? Proposing?"

Sherlock shakes his head and finally relinquishes possession of the ring to a nearby tech who has been dutifully standing by with the requested evidence bag, evidently either shy or still too intimidated by the sharp-tongued consulting detective to speak up. "It's not the ring, it's what it symbolizes. It's a connection - a promise. If he has his way, this is just the beginning."

John can't be sure because with that Sherlock is striding away with a flash of dark curls and long coat, but for a moment he swears he can see him smiling.


	9. Chapter 9

"John, keep a look out."

"While you do what?"

"Pick the lock."

"Pick the-" John twists around to see Sherlock crouched in front of the third victim - Ollenburg's - flat door, the soft clink of metal against metal rattling underneath his words. "Sherlock, you could have just asked Lestrade for the keys. I saw them in an evidence bag, you know."

Sherlock doesn't look up from his work, but by the way his forehead momentarily creases John knows he didn't think of that. Of course. The wingless man is a genius, that's for sure, but in his fervor for answers, the simplest of solutions often pass him by. "And have Lestrade bumbling around every bit of my investigation? No, picking the lock is much easier in the long run," he says, straightening and pocketing his lock-picking kit in on fluid movement.

"Mmm, right," John says, not bothering to sound anything more than wholly unconvinced. He covertly stretches his wings a bit anyways, just in case someone really _is_ paying a bit too much attention to the two men lurking outside the flat. "_Or_ you just didn't think of that."

"Don't be ridiculous," he asserts a bit too quickly and one corner of John's mouth curls upwards in response. Sure, sure. Sherlock isn't looking at him as he opens the flat door, but he evidently can't resist retaliation. "Besides, picking the lock is more exciting. Like those ridiculous films you insist on watching."

"Hey, those ar-" John starts to say, only Sherlock stops dead in his tracks and he gets a face full of coat before he can finish. "Oof! Sherlock!"

He doesn't get much of a chance to protest before Sherlock's moving again, advancing further into the flat and reveal what caught him off guard in the first place.

The newest message is spray-painted across the far wall in thick black lines, the block letters slapdash and messy compared to the bloody lettering of the first one written across the corpse's back.

**DO YOU LIKE YOUR PRESENT?**

_Oh._

Well isn't today just full of surprises?

"John…"

John's cheeks puff out as he exhales slowly, trying to wrap his mind around this new and more than a little alarming twist in the case. "Alright, another message. Chatty one, isn't he?"

"John."

"What?"

"The paint is fresh."

John's gun is out even before they hear the tinkling of broken glass.

Sherlock is off like a shot in the direction of the sound, literally vaulting over a frankly stupidly placed couch that spoke volumes about the fact that whoever put it there certainly hadn't been thinking about chasing criminals through the flat when they did. It doesn't slow John down much, but it provides Sherlock with enough time to get himself in trouble.

John has no doubt that Sherlock knows how to fight in fifteen different styles and can calculate an opponent's weak spots in the time it takes another man to blink, but it only takes a glance for him to realize that the sandy-haired man trying to strangle the consulting detective has gained the upper hand - and fully intends to keep it - through sheer experience and fierce brutality. Fortunately, however, the stranger isn't the only one with combat experience.

John can't shoot the assailant, not while he's still grappling with Sherlock, but he can sneak up behind him and break his wing.

It's a dirty trick and the_ snap_ of breaking bones makes his stomach turn, but the movement comes naturally and he doesn't hesitate in doing it. It was one of the first things they was taught about hand-to-hand combat in the army, targeting the weakest part of the body in addition to taking anything more than gliding out of the equation, and he's done well not to forget it.

The reaction isn't what he had hoped for. The assailant gives a strangled cry and releases Sherlock, but even as he does so he twists to shove the taller man into John. The impact and resulting tangling of limbs throws them both off enough to allow the man to make his escape out the broken window onto the fire escape outside, one wing hanging uselessly from his back.

Sherlock practically uses John as a springboard to launch himself in hot pursuit, coughing and hacking due to his abused throat though he is. They're already gone by the time John is able to gather himself and hop out of the window and onto the fire escape, heedless of the broken glass that litters the metal platform. It's only a flash of Sherlock's coat at the top of the rusted metal ladder that lets him know they've carried the chase onto the roof and he's got a foot on the first rung before he realizes what exactly he's doing.

Fuck this. _He's_ not the one with a broken wing.

Despite the situation, the first powerful beat of his wings that throws him away from the side of the building and into open air inspires the same swooping sensation of unadulterated joy in his gut that it always has - a feeling that he sincerely hopes never goes away. Flying to commute is usually too much of a bother and as such there's never much reason for it in the city, aside from pleasure flying, and even that is something John has found himself with little time and patience for since moving into 221B, but it's now that he's reminded the ability to transcend the bounds of earth is not something to take for granted.

Especially when there's a criminal to catch.

His golden-brown wings make short work of lifting him above the roofline and though he can feel the muscles tug uncomfortably at the scar on his shoulder, he's too focused to spare it much attention. There they are! They've gained surprising ground during his absence, but they're on foot and he's airborne, so he isn't worried about being able to catch up. Besides, they're closing in on a sizeable gap between buildings that should stop them in their tracks.

Or not.

Either John didn't break his wing as badly as he thought, or their quarry has a higher threshold for pain than he anticipated, because the man is able to spread his tawny wings as he launches himself across the gap and glide safely to the opposite roof.

John's wings beat harder against the air, driving him forward. He can still catch him if he hurries. Sherlock won't be happy at having lost the opportunity, but at least he isn't stupid enough to attempt to jump the gap himself.

…is he?

_Shit_.

John can certainly hold his own in the air speed-wise, but all the same he barely makes it in time to reach his friend at the apex of his leap. Close, by not far enough. He isn't going to make it to the other rooftop. John's fingers catch him around the wrist and for a split second they're suspended in space, before Sherlock's weight jerks him painfully downwards and his wings are forced to labor in order to keep them both aloft. Human wings were never meant to keep two grown men in the air, especially when their owner has a none too old bullet wound in his shoulder that throbs painfully under the sudden strain.

Sherlock, for his part, seems to have realized his miscalculation and is clinging to John's jacket sleeve with one hand like it's a lifeline - which, seeing as though it's the only thing between him and the merciless pavement three stories below, it more or less is. "John!" He gasps, his fingernails digging into his skin even through the fabric. "John, don't let me fall. _Do not let me fall_!"

"Sherlock, _shut up_!" John snarls, because it's his fault they're in the predicament in the first place and it's hard to concentrate on simply staying aloft with him yelling down there. With a frankly heroic effort, he pulls them upward with a series of particularly forceful down strokes just far enough to dump Sherlock on the opposite rooftop. He rolls rather painfully to a stop nearby not a moment after, but compared to the soreness in his wings a couple of abrasions on his knuckles are nothing.

Despite wanting nothing more than to lay there and rest a while, John hauls himself to his feet and staggers over to where Sherlock is doing the same. You can take the army doctor out of the war, but old habits die hard, and John Watson does what he has to do. "Are you okay?" He asks, straight to the point.

Sherlock's pale eyes have a glazed look as if his mind isn't entirely in the here and now, similar to the look they get when he's lost in thought, but not quite the same. Nevertheless, he mutely offers John his wrist. It's the one he previously held in a death grip, though it appears he must have also landed on it awkwardly, as the normally pale skin is swollen and angry looking.

"You've probably just sprained it," John says after a moment of deft inspection. He doesn't look up when he adds, "you fucking _idiot_."

There's nothing but silence for one beat, then two. Finally Sherlock says in a quiet voice, "I thought I could make it."

"Yeah. Yeah, I got that part." He releases the consulting detective's wrist and allows himself a steadying exhale. "I'll wrap it when we get back. You'll be fine." With that he stalks off a couple paces and turns his back to Sherlock, as if putting distance between them will soothe the anger bubbling just beneath his skin. It doesn't, but it's at least less tempting to punch him.

"You're angry with me."

"Yeah, good deduction, that."

"Why?"

"_Why?_" John whirls around at this, torn between being furious and incredulous. "Wh- Sherlock, you nearly got yourself _killed _just now, in case you didn't notice!"

"It was for a case," Sherlock points out, though there's no real fire in his defense. "People have died."

"Yeah, and so will you if you don't stop taking such fucking _stupid_ risks." He clenches his jaw and squares his shoulders. "You may be brilliant and mad and God knows what else, but you're not invincible, Sherlock. Someday you're going to fall and I might not be there to catch you again." As much as they don't want to come out, the words have to be said, and he refuses to apologize for them.

Sherlock's face is unreadable, but he doesn't break eye contact in the long moment before he says, as casually as ever, "My wrist hurts."

John releases the breath he doesn't remember ever holding in a tired sigh. "Come on. The sooner we find a way down, the sooner we can get a cab home."


End file.
